


the gentleness that comes (despite the abundance of violence)

by burglarbilbo



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, ish, nonlinear storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22782526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglarbilbo/pseuds/burglarbilbo
Summary: Geralt feels something change in his feelings for Jaskier when the bard asks him to teach him to fight. It comes as a surprise to Geralt. He almost blurts out “I can protect you” but stops himself and instead says, “hmm”.---in which geralt has feelings and isn't sure what they are or what to do with them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 223





	the gentleness that comes (despite the abundance of violence)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliaaaaaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaaaaaa/gifts).



Geralt feels something change in his feelings for Jaskier when the bard asks him to teach him to fight. It comes as a surprise to him. He almost blurts out  _ “I _ can protect you” but stops himself and instead says, “hmm”. 

Jaskier gives him a look and continues filling the large bathtub with herbs and oils. His hands shake ever so slightly as he does so, Geralt notices as he continues undressing. He sets his dirty armor aside and goes over to Jaskier in his underclothes, places a hand on the bard’s shoulder. 

“Jaskier,” he says. “Talk to me.” 

Jaskier bites his lip, looks away, clutched the bunch of herbs in his hand tighter. “I couldn’t protect myself today. You were occupied, fighting the ghoul, I should have been able to take care of myself…” 

“Jas,” Geralt says, tilting his head. 

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier says, stepping out of his grip. “Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re pitying me.” He drops the herbs into the tub haphazardly, backing up to sit down in the chair in the corner of the room. He looks at Geralt with frustration and annoyance and disappointment etched on his face. 

Geralt reaches for him. “Jaskier,” he says, firmly. “I’m not pitying you, for fuck’s sake.” 

Jaskier looks up at Geralt, now directly in front of him. Geralt holds his hand out, Jaskier takes it wordlessly. As Geralt’s face softens, as so often it does when he looks at Jaskier, so does the bard’s. Jaskier’s annoyance fades, and Geralt can hear his frustration dissipate as his heart rate slows to a normal speed. 

“I would never pity you. I looked at you like that because…”  _ Because I love you.  _ He swallows those four words, pushes them down and back away from him. “Because I know you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself. And I’d be honored to help you hone that skill.” 

Jaskier smiles at him, just a small thing from the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, Geralt.” 

That night in the tub, they wash each other with soft hands and touches so tender only Jaskier could have taught Geralt. The feeling of Jaskier’s deft fingers combing through Geralt’s tangled and dirty hair so gently is almost overwhelming, the witcher finds himself needing to close his eyes. He leans back against Jaskier, not caring when water sloshes out of the tub and Jaskier yelps. 

It’s normal, Geralt thinks. To feel this way about his friend. He hasn’t had one in a long, long time. This is normal. Jaskier touches him gently, washes away the dirt and the blood and viscera from Geralt’s body with practiced hands, careful of the bruises and scrapes and the blood that is Geralt’s own. Jaskier has practiced hands, strong hands; Geralt can see Jaskier practicing and perfecting magic if he wanted to. 

Geralt falls asleep that night to the sound of Jaskier’s steady heart beat in the bed next to his. 

The second time Geralt feels a change is when he’s teaching Jaskier to spar. They’re working on a move that would allow a fighter to get their opponent on their back, standing in a clearing, just a few feet apart. Jaskier has mastered the fighting stance Geralt taught him, legs wide enough apart, hands and arms held up to protect his face. 

“Good,” Geralt says. “Remember, just like we practiced.” 

Jaskier takes in a deep breath and nods, just once. 

Geralt moves in on him slower than he would a normal opponent, but Jaskier is ready for him. The bard blocks his first strike, yanking Geralt’s arm into him, then shifts his feet to trip Geralt and land both of them on the ground. Jaskier is perched atop Geralt’s chest, one of the witcher’s arms pinned to the ground above his head, their faces inches apart, Jaskier’s fist a hair away from Geralt’s nose. 

They stare at each other, surprised — Jaskier can’t help the smile forming and Geralt has his eyebrows knitted in almost confusion. It’s the first time Jaskier was able to overtake him, even with Geralt pulling his punches, it counts for something. Geralt’s face fades from confused surprise to pride, a smile forms on his lips and he can’t seem to shake it. Jaskier beams down at him, not moving a muscle. His heart is racing, Geralt can hear it, and he smells the smallest bit of adrenaline coursing through Jaskier’s blood. 

This close together in this context, Geralt feels different somehow. He isn’t sure why or what it is that makes him feel this way and he can’t even pinpoint the feeling really. They’ve bathed together, slept in the same bed together, seen each other at their worst, yet this… pinned to the ground, armored, yet wholly vulnerable… this is different. 

Jaskier seems to realize this at the same moment because he hauls himself off of Geralt a moment later. Geralt almost frowns at the loss of warmth, however slight. 

“You’re improving,” he says, dusting himself off. 

“All thanks to you,” Jaskier says. His smile, beaming self confidence, makes a shade of pink rush to Geralt’s face. Pride. 

Geralt shifts into a fighting stance, motions for Jaskier to do the same. “Again.” 

It happens another time when he, Ciri, and Jaskier are all in a tavern together, at the edge of a small town. Jaskier is in the center of the room, singing tales of the White Wolf of Rivia, Geralt and Cirilla are at a table in the corner, tearing at a roasted chicken and freshly baked bread. The crowd in the tavern seem to take kindly to Jaskier’s tales, a much pleasant change to the reception at the tavern in Posada when the bard and the witcher first met. 

Jaskier finishes his song, collects his coins, and comes to sit with Cirilla and Geralt, sliding in next to the witcher. He takes his lute off of his back, searching for a moment for a place to set it, when Geralt takes it from him and puts it next to him on the floor, wordlessly. 

Ciri looks between the two of them and smiles, continuing to stuff her face with chicken and bread. Geralt doesn’t meet her eye, sliding Jaskier a sideways glance to see the bard smiling down at his meal. 

“I loved the tale about the djinn!” Ciri says, her mouth still full. 

“Did you? Well,” Jaskier says. “That’s not…  _ entirely _ how it happened…” 

The bard launches into the real version of events, between mouthfuls of chicken. Geralt smiles as he remembers it. Jaskier talks brightly, vibrantly, the way he sings — full-bodied and with his hands. Ciri is enthralled, soon forgetting her food and leaning forward on the table with both her elbows. 

Geralt looks between the two of them, sipping his ale, and he feels something in the center of his chest. A warm feeling, and as he concentrates on it, the rest of the tavern seems to fade away. It’s only the three of them, the sound of Jaskier and Ciri’s laughter filling the void. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice pulls him back to reality. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says. 

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks. He places a gentle hand on Geralt’s arm. 

“Just… tired,” Geralt says. But he doesn’t move away from Jaskier’s touch, he simply looks away and takes a swig out of his tankard.  _ Witchers never tire, _ says the voice in his head. He knows what he said is a lie, and he knows that Jaskier knows this too, but Geralt realizes that he does not care. He does not know how to express to Jaskier and Cirilla what he’s feeling — the ache in his chest that isn’t heartbreak or a stab wound or a disease come to take him. So he lies. Because he can and he knows that neither of them will question or pry into him. 

It’s trust, Geralt tells himself. He’s in the bathtub, having fought a kikimora on his own, but Jaskier is nowhere to be found. A young barmaid offered to bathe him when he got to the inn, but he isn’t entirely sure if that’s all she wanted (he doubts it). Geralt is rarely physically weak or vulnerable, but in the bath, he certainly knows he’s not exactly ready for battle. 

Without Jaskier with him, Geralt sits in lukewarm water and tries to work out the dirt and tangles from his hair. It takes twice as long for him to clean his hair and by the time he gets out of the tub the water is near freezing. 

“Hmm,” he grumbles. He doesn’t feel properly clean, properly relaxed. Geralt hopes that Jaskier is alright on his own. The last he saw of him was the dragon hunt, where Yennefer left as well. It’s been months since then and although Geralt has been surviving along fine on his own, like he had been for decades before he’d met the bard, he still misses the way Jaskier would wash him. 

He’s not trusted anyone like that since Jaskier, and Geralt is wondering if he ever will. He still isn’t entirely sure why he trusted Jaskier like that in the first place, though it’s not like the bard was ever much of a threat to him to begin with. Tactically, Geralt has never needed Jaskier — not as a fighter, nor a travel companion — but over their twenty-some years knowing each other he’d grown accustomed to having the bard around. 

Geralt doesn’t know how he’d do it, but he feels the urge to apologize to Jaskier. He hasn’t ever felt regret like this before and he isn’t sure why this exact inn and this exact room has made him so nostalgic for a time months ago. His bed, much like his bath, is cold. 

It’s been years since Geralt has seen Jaskier. Geralt has been training Ciri to protect herself as they’ve been traveling for the past several months. Currently, they’re staying with a lord at his castle in return for getting rid of a werewolf problem in the surrounding town.

Ciri comes back from town early in the evening, her sword and knives freshly sharpened from the blacksmith. 

“There was a bard singing about you at a tavern,” Ciri says, strapping on her armor. 

Geralt looks over at her from where he’s cleaning his armor across the room. He raises an eyebrow. 

“He sang a tale of you and a sorceress hunting a dragon,” Ciri says. 

“That was a long time ago,” Geralt says. Ciri opens her mouth to say something more, but Geralt looks away, focusing on his breastplate. He hasn’t thought about Jaskier or Yennefer or that dragon hunt in a long time. He’s all but forgotten Jaskier’s songs, his gentle touch, his soothing voice, his humor. And though Geralt knows that other bards know his deeds and tales, however twisted they may be, he can’t help but feel relieved to know that Jaskier is still alive. 

The woods are thick and dark, but Geralt and Cirilla kill the werewolf, managing to do so with only minor scrapes and bruises. Geralt gives Ciri the tiniest of smiles, he’s proud of her, of how far she’s come from when he first met her. They’re both covered in blood and fur and bits of dirt but they smile at each other in the bright moonlight. Ciri sheaths her sword and moves to head back toward the horses. As they make their way through the trees and brush, they pass through a small clearing. 

Unexpectedly, Geralt is brought back to the times he taught Jaskier to fight. It was usually in clearings like this, with grass soft enough to break a fall, and space enough to fight. 

“His name is Jaskier,” Geralt says, suddenly. 

Ciri looks back at him, pauses in her stride. 

“The bard,” Geralt clarifies. “I knew him. We… travelled together. Years ago.” Geralt keeps walking as he talks, a little faster than he had been before, Ciri jogs slightly to keep up with him. She doesn’t interrupt him, just listens quietly as Geralt tells her more about himself this evening than he has for the past several months. 

“I was once known as the Butcher of Blaviken,” Geralt continues, cringing at the memory. “But after the bard situated himself as my travel companion, he gave me the moniker the White Wolf of Rivia.” 

“Sounds like he did a bit of good for you,” Ciri says. They mount their horses. 

“Mmm,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier looks the same way he did when Geralt pushed him away. Seeing him again sends a rush of feelings through Geralt’s being and if he was a human he wonders if he’d have to sit down. Geralt is almost surprised at how quickly he finds him in the dark tavern the next night. The bard isn’t playing, he’s sat in one corner of the room, a beautiful girl on his arm; they’re both smiling and laughing at something one of them said, lit up by the candlelight of the tavern. 

As Geralt makes his way over to Jaskier, the bard sees him right away. His smile fades, anger and sadness and shock settling onto his face instead. Jaskier lets go of the girl next to him and whispers something to her, eyes never leaving Geralt’s face. The girl takes one look at Geralt and leaves the table, rushing off to the bar. 

“Jaskier,” the witcher says. He stands in front of Jaskier’s table rather awkwardly. 

“Geralt.” 

Geralt moves to sit down across from Jaskier, but Jaskier stops him. 

“What are you doing here, witcher?” he says, sharply. 

“Werewolf problem,” Geralt says. 

“I heard there was a witcher here, but I didn’t even think it could be you. Geralt of Rivia, traveling with a young girl? Since when do you keep company on your travels?” Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in his chair. 

Geralt clenches his jaw and taking a deep breath he sits down. He looks at Jaskier, really looks at him, and he’d forgotten how soft Jaskier looks in candlelight such as this. Not that he ever had particularly harsh features, but the glow of the firelight lends a youthful glow to him. Even while hurt and angry, Geralt can’t help but find the man beautiful. 

“Jaskier… I want to say that I’m sorry. For what I said to you on the dragon hunt seven years ago,” Geralt says. It takes a lot for him to keep eye contact with Jaskier as he tells him this. 

Jaskier nods, looks away. He lets out a humorless chuckle and looks back to Geralt, leaning forward on the table. “You know I still sing songs about you?” 

Geralt grunts. He does know. 

“After all you put me through, the indifference, the heartbreak. After everything, I still tell tales of the White Wolf of Rivia because the people like them. You’re a hero to them,” Jaskier says. 

_ Seems like he did a bit of good for you,  _ Ciri’s voice echoes in Geralt’s head at that. 

“I should have… thanked you for what you did for—” 

“I don’t want your guilty thanks,” Jaskier hisses. “You—” He pauses, takes in a breath. “You took me for granted, Geralt. And now you expect an apology to fix everything. Well, it seems you may be human after all.” 

They sting, like a physical wound, Jaskiers words. He bites back the urge to say something that will hurt in kind. 

“Jaskier, I shouldn’t have said what I said. I meant it then, but I don’t anymore. I’d like… to go back to being travel companions,” Geralt says. Jaskier keeps looking at him, his gaze not softening. 

“If you deem me a worthy one, that is,” Geralt adds. Jaskier reacts to that. His face softens, arms uncrossing from his chest. 

“You want me to come with you, do you?” Jaskier says, the barest hint of optimism in his voice. Geralt listens for his heart beat, it’s steady and strong, the way Geralt remembers it. He nods. 

“Why?” 

“I…” Geralt struggles to find the words for what he wishes to express.  _ Because you made travelling time pass by quickly, because you were good at finding the best places in town to eat at, because your lute playing soothes me, because you made me feel less like a monster and more like a man.  _ “Because Roach misses you.” It’s not a lie, Geralt knows the mare does miss Jaskier, but it’s so far down on the list of reasons why he wishes Jaskier would just say yes to him. 

But it’s enough. Jaskier laughs, actually laughs. He’s caught off guard by it, Geralt supposes, and the witcher can’t help the laugh of his own that bubbles up from his belly out of his mouth. It’s  _ this  _ that he’s missed. The gentle laughter in the back of a tavern in the night, lit by dying candles and moonlight streaming through the clouded glass windows next to them. 

Geralt hasn’t felt  _ love _ in a long time. Since he was a human, he remembers. In the bath, with Jaskier washing his hair, surrounded by hot water with oils and herbs and flowers, eyes closed, Jaskier singing, Geralt feels something he hasn’t felt in decades. 

_ I think I love you,  _ Geralt thinks, sinking further into the bathwater. 

“What?” Jaskier’s fingers still from where they are, tangled in his hair, covered in scented oils and soap. 

“Hmm?” Geralt opens one eye, looks at Jaskier who’s leaning his head above Geralt’s face. 

“What did you just say?” Jaskier says, voice small. Over the roar of the fire at the end of the room, Geralt hears the bard’s heart rate quicken. 

“Nothing, Jas,” Geralt says. 

“You said you love me,” Jaskier says. His voice is barely above a whisper, it’s shaking, his eyes are wide. He’s scared. 

_ Fuck.  _

“Jaskier, I — “ He can’t lie to him, not after knowing what his feelings toward Jaskier really are. “I meant it.” 

Jaskier, for once, is at a loss for words. He looks at Geralt, hands falling out of his hair as the witcher sits up in the bath and turns to face him. His face turns from fear to relief and his heart slows to a normal rate. Geralt breathes easy. 

They’ve been traveling as the three of them, a bard, a witcher, and an exiled princess, for around four months. Four months since Geralt apologized to Jaskier, four months since Jaskier decided to take Cirilla under his wing as Geralt had, four months since Geralt felt like he wasn’t missing anything anymore. 

Geralt looks at Jaskier, waiting —  _ hoping  _ — for him to say something at all. But the bard stares at him, face still somehow unreadable. 

“Aren’t you—”  _ going to say something?  _

But the rest of the words are left on Geralt’s tongue as Jaskier leans in and kisses him. Surprised, Geralt is wide-eyed when Jaskier pulls away from him, smiling. Jaskier shakes his head. He kisses him again, and this time, Geralt leans into it. 

**Author's Note:**

> i finished writing this in a baskin robbins at 11pm on a monday night. feel free to leave a comment if u liked it! <3 || title comes from a richard siken quote (“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.”)


End file.
